


Inside Out

by dracoqueen22



Series: Mastermind [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM, Dominance/submission, Light Bondage, M/M, Painplay, Rare Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 22:32:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Submission is a word that doesn't exist in Decepticon vocabulary. Except, perhaps, in secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> Story was written to the song "Drumming Song," by Florence + the Machine. Highly recommended to listen as you read. Also, the fic was written for tf-rare-pairing's June Challenge of Different States of Viewing.

“On your knees.”  
  
He obeys because he can't imagine doing anything different, though his coding screams at him.  
  
Soundwave kneels for no mech.  
  
Except, apparently, the gray one standing over him. A Praxian, judging by the door wings and the chevron. Soundwave stares at said doorwings hungrily, wishing he could run his hands over their broad expanse. Wanting to mouth the lithe lines, nibble the stark edges. Worship them as they are made to be worshipped.  
  
He'd do all that and more, if only his hands weren't bound behind him by magna-cuffs. Locked, as they are, physically instead of electronically.  
  
The mech, the Autobot, smiles graciously. “You obey so well,” he purrs, one hand reaching out and curving around Soundwave's helm, thumb stroking his battlemask. “Must be why Megatron keeps you around.”  
  
The telltale sound of Soundwave's cooling fans kicking on is embarrassingly revealing. All attempts at stoic resistance crumble in the wake of the obvious purr.  
  
The Autobot's smile widens, his thumb stroking over and over Soundwave's battlemask, soft, repeated circles. A low buzzing sensation seems to radiate outward from the delicate touch. Soundwave's visor darkens to a low scarlet.  
  
“Is that it?” the Autobot asks in a near-croon, door wings flicking behind him distractingly, capturing Soundwave's attention. “Do you kneel for Megatron, too? Does he give you what you need? Come on, Soundwave. You can tell me.”  
  
A shiver dances down Soundwave's backstrut. “Megatron's requirements irrelevant,” he manages to say, without a single ounce of static in his vocals.  
  
“Of course they are. I can't imagine he'd approve of this, can you?” The Autobot continues stroking Soundwave's battlemask, but his free hand moves. The coil of an energon whip comes into view, giving off curls of blue static into the dim of the room.  
  
Soundwave stares at it, already imagining the hot strike against his plating. It won't hurt. It rarely does at first. He's wearing armor, war-build armor. Built to take blow after blow and keep him safe. It's irritating more than anything.  
  
But the irritation builds. It crawls over his circuits, attacks his neural center. A skilled and steady hand can make the irritation overlap until it becomes a sharp sting and then a throbbing pain. A pain that melts into pleasure, the two so intertwined that Soundwave's own processor gets confused and he can't tell the difference.  
  
A trill of desire crawls through Soundwave's circuits. He can feel himself heating, his fans cycling faster and faster.  
  
“Ah, ah.” The Autobot taps Soundwave's battlemask, jerking his attention back toward him. “You should be looking at me.”  
  
Behind his visor, his optics return to the Autobot.  
  
“I see that you're admiring my new toy,” the Autobot purrs and taps the handle of the whip against the plating on his hip, a continuous staccato that echoes teasingly in Soundwave's audials. “If you're good, you might get to feel it.”  
  
He should feel outraged. Humiliated. The Autobot is treating him like a berth toy. A plaything.  
  
Soundwave is a Decepticon. More than that, he is Megatron's third-in-command, the Communications Officer, and the carrier mech to a verifiable army of casseticons. He shouldn't ever bow to an Autobot.  
  
His fingers clench and unclench, wrists testing the strength of his bonds. He shifts on his knees, feeling the floor hard beneath his limbs.  
  
The heat pours through him, unrelenting, and Soundwave is utterly humiliated. But he's also never been more aroused.  
  
The Autobot strokes his battlemask again, tilting his helm to the side thoughtfully. “Open,” he says, a heavy command, leaving no room for interpretation.  
  
Soundwave resists. He's on his knees. He's submitting. But not completely, not just yet. What's he waiting for? He doesn’t know.  
  
The Autobot leans closer, his energy field trickling over Soundwave's plating, inviting him out to play. “ _Open_ ,” he repeats. There's warning in his tone. Promise.  
  
Soundwave looks up, staring into the bright blue of the Autobot's optics. There's no softness in them just now, just the silver edge of command.  
  
Tap-tap. The Autobot is still patting the handle of the whip against his plating, a rhythm that echoes in Soundwave's audials, that the pulsing of his energy field seems to match.  
  
Tap-tap.  
  
Soundwave's spark is taking up the rhythm, too. Whirling and flaring inside his spark chamber to the cadence.  
  
Tap-tap.  
  
His ventilations stutter, trying at the same time to be shallow and deep. He needs more air, to cool the frantic heat. But it, too, is trying to match the hypnotizing beat of that tapping whip.  
  
Tap-tap.  
  
A low rumble comes to life in the Autobot's chassis. “ _Open_ ,” he says again, or growls rather.  
  
Soundwave's battlemask snaps aside with a defining snick that rings through the dimly lit room, another damning noise of his submission.  
  
He feels heat snap across his circuits, chased by a crackle of static electricity. His energy field swells, slapping against the Autobot's, begging for a touch. A taste. _Something_.  
  
“Good,” the Autobot purrs and his hand cups Soundwave's faceplate, thumb stroking over his mouth components.  
  
Soundwave's lipplates part before he realizes what he's doing, and the Autobot's thumb rubs across the soft metal of his bottom lipplate. Over and over, the same soft caress that somehow alights every sensor attached to the surrounding area.  
  
Soundwave's olfactory sensors go into overdrive. The Autobot smells of discharged plasma – some kind of energy weapon – and gun polish. Like Lord Megatron.  
  
“I think I'll keep you,” the Autobot muses aloud, his optics dipping into a dark cerulean, like the ocean where the Nemesis is buried.  
  
Owned. Like a toy. The humiliation burns in the best kinds of ways. Soundwave arches toward the Autobot, seeking out something more than this bare touch, than the intoxicating tap-tap of that taunting energon whip.  
  
The Autobot chuckles. “You'd like that, I see,” he says, and his thumb dips into Soundwave's mouth, seeking his glossa. “Spend all day on your knees. Bet you'd kiss my pede if I told you to. Would you beg for it?”  
  
A noise escapes Soundwave before he can stop himself, a sound that dangerously approaches a whine. Begging, just like the Autobot asked.  
  
“Oh, you would,” the Autobot murmurs, voice taking on a husk of arousal, his energy field teasing out, lapping at Soundwave's. It promises pleasure and so much more.  
  
The thumb dips further into Soundwave's mouth, stroking over his quiescent glossa, trying to coax him into replying. The taste of gun oil is heady and another noise escapes Soundwave, something like a moan, that echoes in the dim. His glossa twitches, oral lubricants pooling in the bottom of his mouth.  
  
“But you're stubborn, too,” the Autobot continues, his free hand twitching, the length of the coil snapping against the flooring with a crackle of electricity that makes Soundwave jerk in his restraints. “I'll have to strip you down before you completely submit, won't I? Mmm. That sounds like fun.”  
  
Heat bursts across Soundwave's sensory net, a shudder dancing down his backstrut. He exvents loudly, charge crackling across his frame.  
  
The Autobot's smirk widens and he strokes the pad of his thumb over Soundwave's glossa one last time before withdrawing his hand slowly. The damp digit strokes over Soundwave's lipplate as it retreats, a tantalizingly slow slide of metal on metal.  
  
Tap-tap.  
  
There it is again. The rhythm that snatches Soundwave's attention.  
  
Tap-tap.  
  
His spark surges and Soundwave's frame arches with it, eager for a touch to dispel the charge cycling through him. The Autobot has barely touched him and he's desperate for more, desperate for something.  
  
The words to beg for it are on the edge of his vocalizer, so tempting to utilize. He wants it. No, he _needs_ it.  
  
“What the frag are you looking at?”  
  
Soundwave snaps back to awareness, optics focusing on the occupant of the cell in front of him. The Autobot, designation Bluestreak according to his records, is glaring at him, helm tilted with defiance. Despite the energon streaking his frame, the many dents in his chassis, the crack in his right door wing, and the numerous pieces of chain that shackle him against the wall.  
  
A sound is echoing in the cells. Whirring fans. To some degree of humiliation, Soundwave realizes that the noise is coming from himself. He ruthlessly sends a command override to his cooling system, choking the fans. He'll suffer a little overheat until he can get some privacy.  
  
Bluestreak jerks against his chains, remarkably defiant. He's a sniper, a long range gunner, and is usually witnessed to be calm. Collected. This aggressiveness appears out of character. Intriguing.  
  
Soundwave tilts his helm, looking the battered mech over from helm to pede, his gaze lingering on those doorwings. He can still taste the imagined gun oil on his glossa. His cooling fans try to kick on, but his overrides keep them still.  
  
There's no point in interrogating Bluestreak. He's not a member of the command staff so there are few, if any, secrets that could be of worth to the Decepticons. His only use is a trade for the member of the Constructicon team that the Autobots somehow managed to snatch off the battlefield. Even exchange.  
  
“Stop staring, you 'Con freak!” Bluestreak snarls, jerking at his chains again, making those beautiful door wings flick.  
  
Soundwave doesn't obey, a stark contrast to his earlier imaginings, but oh, how he wants to. Wants to kneel at the Praxian's pedes, be required to service the gunner, feel the energon whip against his plating...  
  
Soundwave turns on a pede, forcing himself away from the bars of the cell and from watching Bluestreak. He can't indulge his fantasies here, not where any Decepticon could see and gather blackmail. If any of the mechs figured out Soundwave's true desires, and why he doesn't berth hop like the rest, he'll lose any degree of respect he has gained.  
  
Speak nothing of what Lord Megatron might say.  
  
Bluestreak will be gone tomorrow, back to the Autobots, taking the temptation far, far out of reach. Until then, Soundwave will just be in his quarters. _Alone_.  
  
****

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hurricane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833871) by [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22)




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